


The Good Stuff

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: DSSS Treat, Gift Fic, Multi, Post-Canon, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why aren't you with Fraser?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Stuff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luzula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/gifts), [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts), [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> Last minute* treat for our beloved mods.
> 
>  
> 
> *(no time for beta, apologies)

Ray’s half-asleep, spooned in Vecchio’s arms after some—if he does say so himself—pretty wall-shaking sex, when Vecchio says, real quiet in his ear,

“Why’re you here?”

“The fuck kind of question is that?” Ray mumbles. “Just gave you the blowjob of the century.”

“No, I mean it. Why aren’t you with Fraser?”

That wakes Ray up the rest of the way, fast. He tries to roll over and look at Vecchio, but Vecchio won’t let him.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, but it’s not actually a stupid question, and they both know it. They’ve just never talked about it.

Vecchio does let go of him now; rolls onto his back.

“Just tell me.”

“Jesus, I don’t know, it’s not like. . .”

How do you answer a question like that? It’s not that he doesn’t know the answer, not exactly, but. . . Ray rubs his thumb over his jaw, against the grain of the stubble, then smoothing it down again, as he tries to come up with the words.

Vecchio just lies there, waiting for him.

“Okay, it’s. . .it’s because. . .Look, you know how you’re always saying I got no taste? Well, yeah, maybe I don’t know all the names of all the fancy-schmancy wines and whatever, but I can taste the difference between a 50-buck bottle and box wine, all right? I can appreciate the good stuff.”

“If you say so. So what?”

“So, Fraser’s the good stuff.”

“That’s for sure,” Vecchio agrees. “And?”

“And, you don’t break out the good stuff to go with your Big Mac. You keep Bud Lite in the fridge, you order imported when you’re eating out somewhere spiffy. And you don’t just. . .of course I wanted to live happy ever after with Frase, but I’m too old for that kind of pipe dream.”

Vecchio rolls up onto one elbow to glare down at him.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard.”

“You asked,” says Ray.

“No, really. That makes no sense at all. You know why?”

Ray doesn’t respond. Maybe if he doesn’t take the bait, Vecchio will shut up and leave him alone. Though Ray wouldn’t put money on it.

Sure enough: “Ask me why, Stanley.”

“Go fuck a donut, Style Pig.” At least Vecchio seems to have snapped out of whatever funk he was in before, in favor of busting Ray’s balls.

“Because you’re not one of those morons who buys a classic car and leaves it locked up in a garage 364 days a year,” says Vecchio. “You drive a ’67 GTO to _work._ You take it on fucking _car chases._ Even though you know you’re probably gonna end up driving it into the damn lake sooner or later.”

“Yeah, okay, you got a point, but—”

“You stuck with Stella for _years._ And if there’s anybody who’s _Chateau Latour_ —”

“That’s what I’m _saying,_ ” Ray cuts in _._ “Me and Stell, anybody with half a brain could see that wasn’t going to work. Lotta people said so at the time. But me, I was a kid who thought, gee, wouldn’t it be great to have lobster for dinner every night?”

“And it was great, right?”

“You see a ring on this fucking finger, wiseass?”

“No, I’m serious,” says Vecchio. “You telling me you’d be here right now if Stella hadn’t given you your walking papers?”

“No.”

“Right. ‘Cause you’re like me. Get all the good out of whatever you got, and don’t go home ‘till they turn the lights out. You think if Stella had wanted more from me than a couple of weeks of surf, sun and fun, I’d have said, _Sorry, babe, too rich for my blood, see ya around_?”

“No.”

“Hell, no,” says Vecchio, like that proves something.

“So what?” Ray mutters, even though he should really just keep his trap shut at this point. 

“So, you know what I think? I think you were scared shitless that Fraser wouldn’t want to drink Bud Lite every day for the rest of his life.”

Ray flops over, hugs his pillow tight, and squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck Vecchio anyway.

“Yeah, maybe,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“But you gotta remember, this is Fraser we’re talking about,” says Vecchio, so earnestly that he almost sounds like Fraser, himself. “He’s happy eating pemmican every day of his—”

“But he shouldn’t have to!” Ray bursts out. The pillow bounces off the wall and one of Ray’s outflung hands just barely misses smacking Vecchio in the face; he whacks his knuckles on the headboard instead.

Vecchio shakes his head.

“You don’t get it. That’s okay, it took me years to figure Fraser out. He doesn’t eat pemmican ‘cause he doesn’t know better, or ‘cause it’s all he can get. The guy gets _homesick_ for pemmican. He eats that stuff because he actually _likes_ it.”

Ray can’t think of a snappy comeback to that. He’s too busy sucking his stinging knuckles and remembering three weeks on a dogsled, no one and nothing but the two of them, Dief, the dogs, and a whole lot of big, empty nature. Fraser’s idea of fun. Fraser’s idea to bring Ray along.

“Anyway,” Vecchio says after Ray doesn’t say anything for he’s not sure how long. “You’re not Bud Lite, you’re Giordano’s pizza. Not high-class, maybe, but in a class by yourself.”

Ray blinks at him. Vecchio can get mushy sometimes, especially in bed, but he’s never said anything like that before. Ray wants to kiss the hell out of him, but half his brain is still on the dogsled with Fraser smiling at him like a kid who’s found a bicycle under the Christmas tree, so he’s stuck, pulled two ways and going nowhere.

And maybe Vecchio was expecting a kiss—or _something_ —because when it doesn’t come, he scoots back a little, like he’s giving Ray space to. . .God only knows what. Which is no good, so Ray blurts out the first thing that comes into his head:

“You think Fraser couldn’t have talked me into staying if he’d wanted to?”

Wrong, wronger than wrong, drop it _now_ , but Vecchio’s already coming back at him:

“Fraser’s last lover shot his dog and framed him for murder. That has a way of making a guy kinda—”

“Gunshy?”

Vecchio looks sick—and no kidding, what the hell made Ray say such a stupid fucking thing?—and shoves away from Ray, rolls away like he’s maybe going to get out of the bed. In a panic, Ray grabs him by the arm, and thank God, Vecchio doesn’t throw him off.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ray scoots over and wraps his arms around him from behind. Vecchio doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” Ray says again, pressing his forehead to the back of Vecchio’s head. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” Vecchio’s voice is high and tight; his body’s rigid in Ray’s grip.

“He doesn’t hold it against you,” Ray tells him.

“He talk to you about it?” asks Vecchio after a moment.

“Not much. But he talked about you all the time. He missed you like crazy.”

Vecchio doesn’t say anything, but Ray can feel him relax some. Ray snuggles closer, nuzzling at the back of Vecchio’s neck and letting his more-than-five-o’clock-shadow scrape a little, the way Vecchio ‘secretly’ likes it. Vecchio snorts at him, but he loosens up a little more, leaning into Ray’s hug, even sighing a little when Ray’s fingertips start massaging his chest.

“Did you just tell me to dump you for Fraser?” Ray asks after a while, because he has to.

“Yeah, but only because I’m an idiot.”

Ray gets up onto his elbow and rolls Vecchio over so they’re eye-to-eye. Puts his free hand on the side of Vecchio’s face, even though Vecchio’s not actually trying to look away.

“Well, I can’t. Not ‘till they turn the lights out.”

Vecchio has no business looking so fucking relieved, the asshole. Ray leans down and kisses him hard, and Vecchio lets him in, sucks his tongue down and then thrusts his own into Ray’s mouth in return. They get a rhythm going, give and take, hot and sweet, until Vecchio’s starting to breathe hard and Ray’s thinking about climbing on top of him and seeing if they’ve got the juice to go another round tonight. But then his stupid brain butts in, and it won’t shut up, so he just has to let go of Vecchio and ask.

“So, if you’re so smart and don’t got a problem drinking Chateau-whatsis every day, how come _you’re_ not with Fraser?”

“Mostly ‘cause he eloped with you to North Buttfuck and then never came back,” says Vecchio, staring up at the ceiling.

“You coulda gone after him,” says Ray.

“Coulda. Didn’t.”

Ray could push, like Vecchio’s been pushing him, but Vecchio’s already pretty much said why, and there’s not a lot more to say on that score.

So Ray just says, “Glad you stuck around,” and Vecchio finally turns his head to look at him.

“Me too.”

He’s got this wobbly little half-smile and his eyes have gone all soft the way they do sometimes. Ray kisses that smile, scatters kisses all over Vecchio’s mouth and face until Vecchio pulls him in close and kisses him firmly back.

“How come you didn’t hate my guts?” Ray asks when they pause for air. “I mean, when you came back and I came back and. . .”

“Well, I did, at first. But then I figured anybody Fraser actually wanted to ride off into the sunset with had to be worth knowing. And I was right. As usual.”

“That’s ‘cause you’ve got good taste.” Ray goes back to kissing him.

“Know a good thing when it socks me in the eye,” Vecchio mumbles against Ray’s mouth.

Ray chuckles and starts working his way down Vecchio’s jaw and throat. Vecchio gets his fingers into the short hair at the back of Ray’s head and kneads him gently, like a cat flexing its claws as it purrs. Actually, Vecchio’s kinda purring, too, making little sounds in his throat every time he exhales. They’re not making out, exactly; at least, it’s not the kind of making out that’s supposed to lead to anything else. More like R-rated cuddling, but it feels almost more intimate than screwing. It’d be nice to fall asleep like this, touching, so close. . .like sleeping in the car, with your partner at the wheel, knowing he’ll get you there in one piece. . .feeling his heat at your back in the black of the tent, knowing that if you say his name in the middle of the night, his voice will. . .

“Ray?” Ray asks, blinking his way up out of a doze.

“Yeah, Ray?” Vecchio’s still trailing his fingers up and down Ray’s spine.

“If you’re down here, and I’m down here, you think Frase has anyone up there to tell him when he’s being an idiot?”

“Besides Dief? Probably not.” Vecchio sounds casual, but he’s gone still in Ray’s arms.

“’Cause that’s our job, right?”

“Used to be.”

Ray breathes out, breathes in, and says, “Well, someone’s gotta do it, ‘cause he’s not gonna do it himself. Right?”

“Right.”

“So we need to get our asses up there and—”

Vecchio strokes his thumb over Ray’s cheekbone, looking at him with those soft eyes. “Bring him some pizza?”

“Right,” says Ray.

“Right,” says Vecchio.

“All right.”

Ray doesn’t know if he’s brilliantly solved a problem they only sort of knew they had, or been cleverly manipulated by Vecchio. But he doesn’t really care, because Vecchio’s kissing him again, soft kisses to fall asleep to, and tomorrow—well, maybe not tomorrow, but soon—they’ll have Fraser and box wine and birthday cake for breakfast and all that good stuff. . .

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Idiots Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823662) by [mithrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel)




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